“You love her,” he says instead and he’s lucky I don’t strangle him. The way he’s looking at me, it’s like he’s never seen me before, not until right now.

“Yes.” There’s no point in denying it. Not now that I have to untangle my fingers from his Hugo Boss. At some point between getting her off in the back of my car and kissing her on the stairs at the Hideaway, I went from being obsessed with that one shirt she wears to obsessed with her, to wanting to hear her laugh, performing better as a leader and a chef not just because it’s my job but because of what it means to have her be proud of me, proud of our kitchen. “Yes, I love her.”

Paul picks up his scotch glass and peers into it like another mouthful might magically appear. When one doesn’t, he sighs. “I’m sure you’ll be suspicious of anything I say. But you chose me because it’s what your mom wanted. Make sure that if you’re choosing to say no to the opportunity of a lifetime, it’s for you, Sophie. And not Amy Chambers.”

Chapter Twenty

Amy

When the knock comes, I almost don’t answer. Even though I’m not exactly sure what I’m upset about. All Sophie did was tell Paul a truth that is more embarrassing than it is hurtful. It’s my ego that’s taken a hit.

By the time I roll off the bed, pull on some sweatpants, and slouch over to the door, my apology is ready for her on the tip of my tongue. Along with all the ways I’ll make it up to her. Also with the tip of my tongue.

“You’re not Sophie,” I say, after I pull the door open and stare dumbly at my guest.

Jeremy smiles crookedly, leaning against the door frame. “I know. It sucks, right?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Sorry. I should have called. I just...” He runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up in a black wave. He takes a step back then another. “I can go. You’re expecting company.”

“No.” I open the door farther. “I don’t think I am.” I’m fairly certain Sophie won’t be coming tonight. It’s way past late at this point. “I’ve got beer.”

He nods, sheepish. “That’d be great.”

Jeremy toes off his sneakers, snow melting from the treads onto the rubber mat by my door, and tiptoes through my apartment on his stocking feet. He launches himself onto my bed, the mattress springs bouncing and squeaking under his sudden weight, and throws his arm over his eyes.

“What were you watching?” he asks, nodding at my now-dark laptop screen. I hand him a bottle of beer and take a sip from my own, closing the laptop so he can’t shake the mousepad and watch Sophie’s face appear on an old episode of Pop-Up Kitchen.

“Nothing,” I say. “So what’s up with you? Why are you derping around my house at...” I make a show checking the time on my phone. “Midnight?”